


My Lizard

by Liliriu



Series: Gods and Punks [2]
Category: Hesher (2010), LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous sexuality, Friendship, Gen, Guns, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension, metal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28620576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liliriu/pseuds/Liliriu
Summary: Side story to Gods and Punks. Crossover between it (not much from the original Lovecraft stuff left), and the movie Hesher.Me and my friend Hesher are sitting on my bed, sharing a bong. Smoking my weed.Hesher is shirtless. His body is very skinny, but also very soft looking. He has dissembled my gun and spread the pieces over my bed. My sheets are now all tainted with black grease. He is trying to assemble the thing back.Warnings: shooting (the "violence" is mostly to property), sexual contact that doesn't go anywhere.
Relationships: randolph carter & hesher, randolph carter/hesher
Series: Gods and Punks [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2097219





	My Lizard

Me and my friend Hesher are sitting on my bed, sharing a bong. Smoking my weed.

Hesher is shirtless. His body is very skinny, but also very soft looking. He has dissembled my gun and spread the pieces over my bed. My sheets are now all tainted with black grease. He is trying to assemble the thing back.

Out of my computer’s speakers, Lemmy is singing “if you squeeze my lizard, I'll put my snake on you.”

I’d put my snake on Hesher, all right.

“You should not play with weapons,” I tell him, “you could get us both killed. I could loss my job, if they find out I’m letting you play with it.”

“Won’t need a job if you die.”

I can’t argue with that.

There’s a shirtless metalhead on my bed, surrounded by gun internal organs. I must be in heaven. Maybe I’ve already died.

Really, I love those metalhead types; the long hair, the leather, the tattoos. Often cute and non-serious enough to allow you to ignore the fact that they’re kind of dumb. Hesher has dark, wavy hair and white skin. I would like to lick his cute, tattooed tummy, and give it tiny bites. Feel his soft skin melting inside my mouth.

He is always telling stories, so I attempt one myself. I tell him about the night in which I took this Christian friend I used to have, Joel, to the cemetery, and told him the story of the Unnamable, only lo later reveal that we were sitting at the exact same spot in which the events of that story took place. I stop the narrative at the moment in which the winged creatures arrived.

“So? what happened next?”

“Nothing. We fainted. They found us and took as to the hospital. Joel never spoke to me again.”

“Pfff… that’s a fucking boring story. Almost fell asleep. I bet that’s what happened to your friend.” And before I can answer, he adds, “but don’t worry, everybody know that women can’t tell stories. So it’s OK.”

“Dude, I can tell stories, I’m a fucking writer. Also, I’m a dude.”

“So how come I’ve never read any of your books?”

I think, “are you even literate?” But the fact is, that people _not having_ read my books is usually a good sign, regardless of them being literate or not.

“Also, you’re a chick,” Hesher goes on, “a cool, redhead chick with a gun.”

He is still busy with it. The parts are not randomly spread anymore, but starting to lump together; a greasy, half assembled puzzle.

“No, I’m a cool redhead _dude_ with a gun.”

“Nothing cool about _that_. You’re a chick, like that underaged one on your wall, with the head.”

It takes me a moment to understand what the fuck is he talking about. He is looking at the reproduction of Caravaggio’s David with the Head of Goliath, which indeed is hanging on the wall. David is portraited as a seductive youth, modelled after Cecco, the artist’s assistant and presumed lover. He is holding the bleeding head of Goliath, modelled after Caravaggio himself, the meaning of which is debated until this very day. But I don’t tell him any of that, because it’s like, intellectual shit, he would not understand. I just tell him, “that’s a dude. And I’m also a dude.”

“So why do you look like a chick?”

“Because I’m a fag. And I wear make-up and shit.”

“I know a million fags that don’t wear any make-up-and-shit. They look like regular dudes, uglier than me.”

“Well, I do.”

He leaves the gun, which is almost fully assembled by now, and stares at me attentively.

From my computer’s speakers, Dave sings that he’s safe, in the eye of the tornado.

“Let’s say, I believe you, you’re a guy. Would you fuck me?”

“Course I would.”

“Only you can’t, ‘cause you’re a chick.”

“Wanna check?” I unzip my jeans, let them fall and hang over my knees.

Hesher puts his hand under my underwear and over my balls. He caresses them slowly with his fingers, and, oh so gently, with a nail. He feels my cock, traces the veins. Fuck I’m hard. There are those magical waves of honey emerging inside my cock, traveling to my brain, exploding.

All this lasts like, two seconds. Hesher pulls his hand away and looks at me in disgust, “you were right,” he says, “you’re a dude,” He spits those words at me, and then _literally_ spits at me. He pauses for a moment and adds, “It’s lucky you’re a dude, you’d be an ugly ass chick.”

I lay down on my pillow, comfortably leaning my head over my arms, assimilating what the fuck has just happened. “Can we still be friends?” I ask.

“Dunno, maybe,” he shrugs, “as long as I can keep playing with your weapons.”

He has done it, the gun is whole again. Dave is singing some other song, maybe Hangar 18. “At least he didn’t find the ammunition,” I think for a hopeful moment, just before I realize that nope, he’s also found that. He is now charging the thing.

“Hesher don’t you dare, that’s dangerous, _don’t you fucking dare!_ ”

But he is laughing like a manic and aiming at the ceiling. He shoots.

He keeps laughing and shoots at the window, making the glass explode. There are shards flying from every direction.

I clean a couple that got into my cheek, sticky with droplets of blood. Hesher has also a few stuck to him, but doesn’t seem to notice; he is still busy with destruction. I am trying to remember whether I own a first aid kit or not.

And I am thinking, “this cute, shirtless, metalhead type; he smoked my weed and touched my cock and humiliated me, and now he’s using my gun to cause a wreck in my house. Even if he doesn’t kill me by mistake, I will end up homeless in the best case, but more probably in jail.”

If, somehow, I manage to get out of this mess– 

This will be jerk off material for _weeks_.

**Author's Note:**

> Things mentioned/referenced here:
> 
> Killed by Death - song by Motörhead.  
> The Unnamable - short story by Lovecraft.  
> David with the Head of Goliath - painting by Caravaggio.  
> Tornado of Souls - song by Megadeth.  
> Hangar 18 - song by Megadeth.


End file.
